Edwin Potter and the Gift of Berossus
by Dr. Platypus
Summary: James was not the first Potter to menace the halls of Hogwarts with a band of troublemakers. Edwin Potter longs for a life of adventure, and there is plenty to be had in Queen Anne's nascent empire. But first he must face the only man he ever feared.
1. The Dashing Miscreants

_Sunday, May 17th, A. D. 1713_

"Edwin."

Edwin groaned. Insulted by the brightness of the morning sun, his eyes refused to open more than a squint.

"Edwin, can you hear me?"

"No," he said flatly. "I can't hear a thing."

The feminine voice harrumphed. There was a sound of footsteps, then, in whispered, exasperated tones: "He'll be fine—although I ought to kill him myself! To pull a stunt like that!"

"Easy, Dilys," a young man's voice said. "If you've only now realized that Edwin Potter pulls stunts like that with almost predictable frequency, I'm sorry but you simply haven't been paying attention."

"But he could have blown up the Astronomy Tower! Professor Littlefield is practically begging Professor Everard to expel him—and I can't say I blame her. And why must you always take his part?" the young woman asked. "I expect Basil to defend him—he always finds amusement in whatever mayhem Edwin instigates. But you, Thomas? I should think a Ravenclaw would demonstrate a bit more prudence in such matters."

"And _I_ should think a Hufflepuff of all people would show a bit more loyalty to her friend. Honestly, Dilys—"

"Give up while you still can, Thomas," Edwin said, "you're never going to win." He tentatively opened his eyes and took stock of his surroundings. As he surmised, he was in the hospital wing. It was a warm late-spring morning. Birds were singing. Through the windows Edwin saw a parade of gleaming white clouds drifting lazily through the blue sky. At the foot of his bed his two friends—a short, heavy-set boy and a petite girl with her golden hair in ringlets, stood arguing.

"Aha," the boy said. "Lazarus awakes." He approached Edwin's bedside. "And with all of his limbs still attached. Well done, Mr. Potter."

Edwin grinned. "Thank you, Mr. Wildsmith, you're quite welcome. I assume I have Miss Derwent to thank that I'm all in one piece?"

"She insisted on helping Madame Scevington re-grow your eyebrows," Thomas Wildsmith said. "She got them a bit too close together, I'm afraid."

Dilys Derwent elbowed her Ravenclaw friend.

"What about the Slytherins?" Edwin asked.

"The one we like is asleep in the next bed." Thomas gestured, but when Edwin turned his head, all he could see was a curtain pulled to give each patient his privacy.

"And Black?" The name came out as if it tasted foul on Edwin's tongue.

"He walked away with not so much as a splinter," Dilys said in a tone that added, "and it serves you right."

Edwin cursed. Simultaneously, the same curse was uttered on the other side of the privacy curtain.

"Ah," Dilys said, "it seems your accomplice has decided to rejoin the living as well. Good morning, Basil."

Basil Parkinson mumbled something not entirely intelligible. Thomas wheeled away the curtain to include him in the conversation.

"Morning, Basil," Edwin said, looking across at his pug-faced friend. Basil's fingers fumbled around his bedside table for his spectacles. He put them on and looked around.

"I told you he'd never fall for it," Basil said resignedly. "Rigel Black may be many things, but gullible is not one of them. He knows what a unicorn horn is supposed to look like. He's a bloody seventh-year, after all."

"What I want to know," Thomas said, "is how you two got hold of an Erumpent horn in the first place."

"You won't have to lie about things you don't know, Thomas," Edwin said.

"I said five minutes!" a shrill voice interrupted. Madam Scevington, the Hogwarts matron, bustled into the room, an exasperated expression on her face. "You've taken at least ten. Now, off you go. Mr. Potter and Mr. Parkinson need their rest." She hastily shooed Thomas and Dilys out and pulled the great double doors of the hospital wing shut behind them.

She eyed her two patients with an air of disdain. Over the past six years she had patched up these two black-haired boys more than any other students in recent memory. "If Professor Everard doesn't expel the both of you after this…," she muttered.

"Well," Basil sighed once Madam Scevington had returned to her office, "the Dashing Miscreants strike again."

Edwin chuckled. "Do you suppose they'll still call us that in twenty years?"

"Why not?" Basil said. "It's what they've called us ever since we came to Hogwarts."

"I beg to differ, Basil. They called us 'miscreants.' I added the 'dashing' bit myself."

"So you did, so you did. Of course, people weren't used to students from all four Houses becoming such close friends."

"You forget, Basil, we became friends before we were ever sorted. That first night in Hogsmeade, before we even got in the boats. Remember?"

"Well, I had known Thomas for ages—our fathers work together in the Ministry. We'd have been friends regardless."

"And Thomas grew up in the next village over from Dilys…"

"And Dilys fancied _you_," Basil grinned.

"We were only eleven," Edwin scowled. "Nobody fancied anybody."

The doors of the hospital wing swung open. In walked a solitary figure, a tall white-haired wizard in sweeping robes of black and gold.

"Headmaster," Madam Scevington called, rushing to greet him at the door.

"P-Professor Everard!" Edwin and Basil said together. They both sat up in their beds.

"Mr. Potter, Mr. Parkinson," the headmaster nodded to both boys in turn. "Madam Scevington, I wonder if I might have a few minutes with these boys?"

"Of course, Headmaster." Madam Scevington scurried away.

Professor Everard gazed down at the two. Edwin attempted to present a face devoid of expression. He envied the way that trick came naturally to his Slytherin friend in the next bed.

"I have spoken to your Heads of House," the headmaster said. "Professor Littlefield and Professor Dimsdale agree that fifty points should be taken from your respective Houses for the damage you've inflicted upon the Astronomy Tower."

The boys hung their heads, but said nothing.

"Given that you have already succeeded in inflicting corporal punishment upon yourselves, we have decided that further whipping will not be necessary. You shall, however, both spend detention with Professor Littlefield repairing the damage until she is satisfied that her classroom and observatory are once again in perfect working order."

The headmaster paused as if expecting words of protest at his punishment. He seemed pleasantly surprised to hear none.

"Owls have been sent to your respective families apprising them of last night's…activities. And, of course, a full report of this incident will be added to your already prodigious personal records."

"Yes, Professor," Edwin whispered.

"It is only fair to inform you that I have reached my limit with your reckless antics." He held up a single bony finger. "One more infraction—one prank, one explosion no matter how small, one mouse stolen from the Transfiguration classroom—and I shall wash my hands of both of you. I care not how influential your fathers may be nor how respected your family names. Are we clear?"

"Yes, Professor," the two boys said in unison. The headmaster wheeled around and exited the hospital wing as abruptly as he had entered.

There was a long silence, at the end of which Basil said, "I don't know if we'll make it another year—even with Black graduated."

Edwin sighed. "To tell you the truth, Basil, I'm not sure I'll be coming back at all next year."

* * *

><p>Author's note: This is just a kernel of an idea about some characters and a setting that may or may not take off. I'll finish this story (about 3-4 chapters total) and then decide if it's worth going further.<p> 


	2. The Three Broomsticks

Thanks to the advances of modern wizardry, Hogsmeade had weathered the recent famine better than most Scottish villages—although it had seen better days. Many High Street shops lay abandoned; only Dervish and Banges managed to run a brisk business selling new and (especially) used magical instruments to the students and teachers at Hogwarts. The Hog's Head Inn, once the center of goblin rebellions, was now a favorite haunt of Jacobites, who sang their seditious songs and toasted James VIII, "the King across the water."

Edwin, Basil, Dilys, and Thomas preferred the rustic character of the Hog's Head, but didn't care for the politics. Basil and Edwin especially, being from ancient pureblood families, had little interest in the comings and goings of Muggle monarchs. So it was that the "Dashing Miscreants" chose to mark their last weekend at Hogwarts with a quiet supper at the Three Broomsticks. As expected, the fare was quite modest, but tasty and perhaps even worth the inflated prices the famine imposed.

As they sat at their favorite table, the conversation eventually turned to Edwin's recent decision not to return to Hogwarts next year.

"I think it's a mistake," Thomas judged. "Everyone needs a solid education. And besides," he hesitated for a moment, "you can't break up the Miscreants."

"Easy for you to say," Edwin said, sipping his red currant rum, "you're the favorite of every teacher at Hogwarts. You get top marks in every subject, and you somehow manage mostly to stay out of trouble even though you're best mates with Basil and me."

Thomas blushed. "Your marks aren't much lower than mine. They might be just as high if only you'd apply yourself."

"Now you're sounding like my father," Edwin scoffed. "Or worse—my grandfather!"

"Splud, Edwin," Basil chortled. "Is the old man still riding you about your marks?" Edwin answered with a disheartened glare.

"He's been a member of the International Confederation of Wizards longer than anybody can remember," he scoffed. "He says a duffer like me reflects poorly on the family name. Well I say, who bloody cares? There's more to life than writing essays and sitting tests. I'm ready to see something besides that ruddy castle!"

"We all agree it's your decision," Dilys said, wary of her friends' rising voices. "Although I feel I must point out that your ability to think things through…. Well, to be honest, it doesn't always inspire confidence."

"It _is_ your decision," Basil chimed in. After another pause, he added, "To tell the truth, I've suspected this was coming for some time. You haven't exactly studied this year. You've put far more effort into pranking Rigel than into any of your classes. It's pretty obvious you're bored with school."

"Yeah."

"Truth be told, I'm a bit bored as well—or as bored as one can be with friends like you about. Professor Littlefield keeps nagging me about career prospects. He seems to think I should work for the Ministry like my dad. Can you imagine me writing reports on contraband cauldrons?"

"Cauldrons, no," Edwin said. "Perhaps charmed Muggle artifacts." Someone in a far corner caught his eye. "You see that bloke over there, looking over that stack of parchments? The one in the turquoise periwig?"

"Got 'Ministry of Magic' written all over him, that one has," Thomas opined.

"Probably in the middle of a real page-turner on the proper care and feeding of flobberworms," Basil shuddered. "There's not enough gold in Gringotts to make me work for the likes of him."

He rolled his eyes. Turning back to Edwin, he said, "We're a lot alike, you and I. We're both bored to death of classes. We both think most of our classmates are gits—present company excluded, of course. And we both dread spending the rest of our lives behind a desk somewhere at the Ministry for Magic. The only difference is, I try to keep my head down, don't go looking for trouble. You, on the other hand, have very nearly as much sense of subtlety as a troll with hemorrhoids."

Edwin, Dilys, and Thomas chuckled and nodded their heads.

"If you want to leave, Edwin, then Godspeed." Basil sighed. "And I must say, I'm tempted to join you. I'm ready to see more of life than that musty old castle, myself."

"You can't be serious," Thomas was wide-eyed. "You, too?"

Basil started to respond, but before he could say a word, a surly voice interrupted.

"I thought I told you, Parkinson. This lot will only hold you back."

Basil looked up from Thomas. He and the others spun around in their seats—a maneuver that sloshed Edwin's rum across his collar and sleeve.

Rigel Black swaggered over to their table. The seventh-year was tall and dark-haired—as befit his name. By his side, as usual, was his brutish cousin Simon Goyle. Edwin let his hand drop to his side, where it quickly and secretly found the grip of his wand.

"This is a private conversation, Black," Basil said.

Rigel's gray eyes narrowed. "I'd have expected better from a fellow Slytherin," he scoffed. "Consorting with a git like Potter is one thing—at least he's from a proper family, but really, Parkinson. Where's your sense of pride? To be seen in public with halfbloods" (he indicated Thomas) "…and even a filthy mudbl—"

"That's enough, Black!" Edwin shouted rising to his feet, just as Dilys began to turn red. Basil's eyes darted back and forth as he took stock of the situation. Edwin and Rigel had both drawn their wands. Thomas seemed stunned by the sudden explosion of emotion. Dilys was the first to speak.

"Leave it alone, Edwin," she said in a half-whisper. "He's not worth the trouble."

"No trouble at all," Edwin said through clenched teeth.

"Here now," the barman called. Only then did Edwin realize the entire tavern had turned to see what was about to happen. Some had already ducked outside. Others had taken cover underneath their tables. The Ministry official in the turquoise periwig had put down his parchments and braced himself against his table, a look of dumbfounded amazement on his face.

"Teachers will be here any minute, Potter," Rigel said.

"This shouldn't take long," he answered. "Outside?" Rigel nodded. He and Goyle strode toward the door with Edwin and Basil close behind.

"Edwin, please!" Dilys begged.

"It's alright, Dilys. I've been meaning to teach this miserable excuse for a wizard a lesson for some time."

The muddy street quickly cleared except for a ring of onlookers. The two boys squared off, wands at the ready, circling each other. Edwin took it all in. Black was right: they would only have a minute or two before a teacher arrived to break them up. The sun was still high in the partly cloudy sky. He tried to maneuver so his back was to the sun, but Black had the same idea. Carriages had left deep ruts in the muddy road—and the beasts that drew them had left their own particular evidence of their passing.

Edwin grinned.

"What are you going to do, Potter? You don't have an Erumpent horn to fling at me this time!"

"Tell me, Black," Edwin said, moving closer. "Is it true your mum fancies trolls? 'Cause from the look of you—"

Rigel Black bellowed an obscenity and charged at Edwin, who only managed to sidestep him at the last possible second. "You're dead, Potter. Dead!" Black lunged again. The two were only inches apart when Edwin's grin opened into a mischievous smile.

"Accio dung!" he shouted. In a heartbeat, a dozen or more globs of the foul-smelling substance were flying towards him from every direction.

It took another heartbeat for Rigel to process what was happening, and in that moment Edwin winked, then turned on the spot and suddenly vanished with a _crack_.

He Apparated to a spot ten or twenty feet further down High Street just in time to see the projectiles of dung find their target. One of them, he was pleased to see, had landed squarely in Rigel Black's face.

The Slytherin seethed with anger and trained his wand directly at Edwin.

"Black! Potter! Put down your wands at once!" It was Professor Dimsdale, the Head of Gryffindor House. The short, white-haired wizard dashed between the two students, his own wand in his hand.

"What is the meaning of this?" Professor Dimsdale thundered.

Everyone shouted his or her version of the story at once. Only when the Professor shot angry red sparks from his wand did they settle down. He glared at Edwin, but he also grinned as he gave a backward glance to the dung-spattered Slytherin.

"Twenty points each from Gryffindor and Slytherin for dueling," he pronounced. "Mr. Black, return to the castle and change your robes." He trained his cold, blue eyes on Edwin. He sighed with resignation. "Mr. Potter," he said at last.

"A moment please, Dimsdale." The professor whipped around to see who was addressing him. It was the Ministry wizard from inside the Three Broomsticks. "Before you give this boy the dressing down I'm sure he deserves," he chuckled under his breath, "I wonder if I might have a moment of his time."

"And you would be…?"

"Mr. Southill, at your service. I believe we have an appointment later this afternoon. Given what I've just witnessed, I'm not sure that will be necessary. I believe I've already found the person I'm looking for."

In other circumstances, Professor Dimsdale's expression might have easily been mistaken as evidence he had recently been Confunded—and Edwin wasn't entirely sure his own expression was any different.

* * *

><p>• Jacobites were dedicated to restoring the House of Stuart after the deposition of James II (of England)VII (of Scotland) in 1688. The primary seats of Jacobitism were the Scottish Highlands, Ireland, and northern England. The First Jacobite Rebellion (1715) took place after years of famine and hardship in Scotland.


	3. A Few Good Wizards

"Mr. Potter, is it?" the stranger asked. Edwin continued to stare at him, open-mouthed. "Professor Dimsdale called you Potter. You wouldn't by chance be the son of Charles Potter?"

"That's right." Very tentatively, he slid his wand back into the inside pocket of his robes.

The stranger smiled. "I might have guessed. I played Quidditch against your father in my Hogwarts days. Southill's the name. Julian Southill." He bowed a stately bow. Edwin returned the courtesy.

"Edwin Potter, sir," he said.

"Do you fly, Mr. Potter?"

"A fair bit, I suppose."

"Don't lie to the man, Edwin," Dilys spoke up. Edwin suddenly remembered where he was and who was with him. "You're brilliant on a broom and you know it."

Edwin felt his cheeks flush. He was, indeed, a good flyer, and if he had ever managed to stay off of detention, he might have still been the Gryffindor Seeker.

The stranger shrugged in the direction of the castle. Rigel Black, fuming and spattered with dung, had just then reached the gates. "That was a handy bit of magic, that was. Seventh year?"

"Sixth, sir," Edwin said. Then, smelling the spilled rum on his collar he added, "but I'm already seventeen." He quickly retrieved his wand and magicked away the stain.

If Julian Southill noticed the unusual aroma of Edwin's clothing he chose not to mention it. Instead he said, "Did you really manage to acquire an Erumpent horn?" Basil, Thomas, and Dilys traded frantic glances. Edwin gulped and decided to keep his wand out, although he slowly allowed his hand to drop to his waist. "Don't worry!" Southill continued. "I have no intention of getting you into trouble. I'm merely curious. That's a very tightly regulated import. I take it you…know some people?"

Edwin said nothing and attempted to keep his cool.

"Perhaps we should chat. Just the two of us—if your friends don't mind?" Julian Southill gestured toward the castle. Edwin glanced at his friends, nodded, and strolled toward Hogwarts alongside the Ministry wizard.

"You seem like a resourceful young wizard," he said approvingly. Edwin remained silent. "A bit brash, perhaps, but if you're anything like Charles Potter you've got a good head on your shoulders. How's your French?"

Edwin shrugged. "Mostly swear words, I'm afraid, but I know how to conjugate them. What is this about, Mr. Southill?"

Julian Southill leaned forward. "I work for the Ministry. I've just been appointed Commissioner-at-Large for Magical Territorial Relations and Statutory Secrecy. I'm here to recruit members for my legation."

"I'm sorry," Edwin said. "I almost got that. Would you mind repeating it slowly?"

Mr. Southill grinned. "Never mind the jargon," he said. "I don't suppose you keep up with the Muggle news?"

"You mean the war?"

"The peace!" Mr. Southill said. "Britain signed on to a treaty in the Netherlands only a few months ago. It's very complicated, but the long and the short of it is that we—that is, the United Kingdom—have several new overseas territories to consolidate."

"Wait, are you saying the Queen wants wizards to—?"

"Of course not, Mr. Potter. Neither Her Majesty nor the Lord High Treasurer has the slightest inkling of my mission. Let the Muggles handle their own affairs, but we wizards will have to handle ours as well." By now they had reached the front gate. Edwin glanced upwards at the twin winged boars flanking the entrance.

"We wizards in the homeland have certain obligations to others of our kind who are now under British rule. There are magical flora and fauna to study, colonial relations to strengthen—the Americans are already pressing for their own wizarding school! There are trading opportunities to explore. And of course, there are laws to be enforced. I'm speaking, of course, of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy."

The wheels began to turn in Edwin's mind. Wizards had passed the Statute of Secrecy three years before he was even born. Edwin had grown up understanding that there were severe penalties for practicing any magic at all where a Muggle could see it.

"Britain is signatory to the Statute, as I'm sure your History of Magic teacher has explained to you." In fact, Edwin knew the Statute practically by heart since he was a child. After all, to hear his mother tell it, his formidable grandfather had practically written the thing singlehandedly.

"So…it's up to us to enforce it in our overseas territories."

Julian Southill grinned. "I knew you were a bright lad. But it's tougher than you'd imagine. There are magical creatures in America that haven't even been cataloged, and don't get me started on the disregard for magical secrecy! The Iroquois had been giving the French fits for years! Well, they're our problem now, and they're only the tip of the iceberg."

They ambled along vaguely in the direction of the groundskeeper's hut as Mr. Southill continued.

"The long and the short of it, Mr. Potter, is that I need a few young wizards to join my legation. Not bureaucrats, mind you, but wizards who are able to think on their feet. Wizards who are able to improvise, to press on without flinching from danger."

"I see."

"I asked Professor Dimsdale to recommend a number of likely candidates from among the seventh-years. The wizards I choose will have to be competent in numerous magical disciplines, but exceptional talent at Defense Against the Dark Arts is absolutely crucial. The Defense professor's assessment of each candidate must therefore weigh heavily in my final decision. What are your marks like in Defense, Potter?"

"Wait a minute," Edwin said. "Are you offering me a position? But you don't even know me!"

"I know your father," Mr. Southill said. "And I know what I just saw at the Three Broomsticks. Mind you, I'm not promising anything. But it would be worth your while to offer your name for consideration. I _shall_ mention you to Professor Dimsdale. Now, I ask again: how are you at Defense?"

Edwin sighed. He wasn't the best in his class: that was Thomas Wildsmith. He wasn't even the best Gryffindor. Reginald Longbottom always won the highest marks in his House, and there were usually two or three others ahead of him as well.

"Better than average," he said. A second later, pride swelling in his chest, he added, "But I'm best in my year at dueling. It's only the theory that trips me up."

"After what I saw this afternoon," Mr. Southill grinned, "I've no doubt you're a terror on the dueling grounds. You shall hear from me this summer, Mr. Potter. The more I think of it, the more certain I am that you're precisely the kind of wizard I'm looking for.

"Mr. Southill?" Edwin said.

"Yes, Potter?"

"You said you were looking for wizards, right? I mean, more than one? Well, there's another student I think you ought to consider."

"Yes?"

"Basil Parkison. He's in Slytherin. All you said about being able to improvise, to keep pressing on…? I reckon Basil sounds like the sort of wizard you're looking for. We've been friends for six years now. I've never seen a problem he couldn't think his way out of."

Mr. Southill considered Edwin's suggestion.

"Parkinson, eh? I don't suppose you have any idea what his Head of House thinks of him?"

"Professor Littlefield? Oh, I'm sure she'd tell you he's more than ready to see the world beyond this old castle."

* * *

><p>• The Treaty of Utrecht, signed in March–April 1713, ending the War of Spanish Succession. The treaty gave the United Kingdom control of several former Spanish and French colonies including Gibraltar, Minorca, and parts of Canada. It also required France to recognize British sovereignty over the Iroquois and opened trade with India to all European nations.<p>

• The post of Prime Minister evolved gradually over time, and is applied to early Prime Ministers only in retrospect. Robert Harley, First Earl of Oxford and Earl Mortimer, was effectively Queen Anne's chief minister when he served as Lord High Treasurer (1711–1714).

• The British use of "mates" for "friends" seems to have arisen in a nautical context at about this time or perhaps a bit later. This explains why this usage did not make its way to America. I suspect it would be anachronistic for Edwin to call Basil his "mate" at this point in his life.


	4. Legacy

Mr. Southill's owl arrived at the Potter residence shortly after the end of term. Edwin had, indeed, been offered the position of Second Assistant to the Commissioner-at-Large for Magical Territorial Relations and Statutory Secrecy. Edwin's parents were, of course, proud that he had landed position with the Ministry at such a young age—and perhaps relieved that they wouldn't have to endure any further dispatches from Professor Dimsdale or Headmaster Everard about his extracurricular activities. For his part, Edwin only finally decided to accept the offer when an owl arrived the next day from Basil informing him that his friend had been named Third Assistant.

The legation was due to set sail for Gibraltar in late July, so Edwin spent the next several weeks packing and unpacking his school trunk. Quarters were likely to be cramped on the ship; he would only have room for the essentials: he would need his broom for sure, and he reckoned it couldn't hurt to bring his potion-making equipment—although Basil was by far his superior in Potions. He couldn't decide if he should wear his sword or simply pack it in his trunk. Professor Dimsdale insisted his students learn the basics of Muggle fencing. "A Gryffindor tradition from the earliest days of Hogwarts," he called it. For the first time, Edwin wondered what it would be like to have to defend himself, wandless, trusting in only twenty-eight inches of steel to keep him alive. In the end, he decided to pack it.

He debated for over a week about his astronomical charts, finally concluding that practically anyone would be better at stellar navigation than he was. Likewise, the dragon-skin gloves from Herbology class could stay at home, as could all of his school books.

He did know, however, that he needed plenty of Muggle clothing, easily obtained from nearby shops. As he returned from clothes-shopping one afternoon, he spied a huge snowy owl perched in the apple tree just inside the grounds of the Potter estate. His face darkened as he recognized the feathered messenger.

"Wilberforce," he muttered. As if on cue, the owl took off and glided to the ground in front of him. Edwin stooped to retrieve the sealed envelope in the bird's beak.

"Hello, Wilberforce," Edwin said unenthusiastically. "Message for me, I see. What's the old man want to complain about now?" He tore open the envelope and scanned the letter inside.

"Is that a letter from Grandpa?" Edwin's mother called from the doorway. He stood up, ignoring the owl's icy stare. "He wants me to come by and see him. Tomorrow morning."

"Well, your father and I are due in London, I'm afraid. You can go by yourself, can't you, dear?"

"Of course," Edwin said. He did not, however, reveal precisely how little he looked forward to it.

But duty was duty and family, such as it was, was family. Before dawn the next day, Edwin pulled on his new Muggle suit, tucked his wand inside his jacket, and Apparated to Godric's Hollow.

He strolled into town just after sunrise. As he passed the old church with its even more ancient graveyard, he wondered how many of his mother's ancestors were buried there. He crossed the village green and found the lane that led off in the direction of the moor. There, on the outskirts of the village, stood Peverell manor.

Edwin lifted the massive iron doorknocker, but before he could even bring it down, the door creaked open. At his knees stood a house-elf dressed in an immaculate white pillowcase that was, if anything, more severely starched than his own new shirt.

"Good morning, Dibbs," Edwin said, as pleasantly as possible. "My Grandpa sent for me. May I come in?"

The elf eyed him noncommittally and bowed him inside. "Master is taking his morning constitutional, Edwin Potter," Dibbs squeaked. "You may wait for him in the withdrawing room." Edwin wasn't sure how his grandfather's house-elf managed to convey both superiority and servility at the same time, but that seemed to be the tone of voice Dibbs always took when addressing him.

Edwin followed the elf as he padded across the foyer, through the impressively appointed stateroom, and into the smaller private chamber where he was expected to wait. He took his seat and glanced around the room, the portraits of generations of Peverells eyeing him warily but saying nothing. The shelf where his grandfather kept his collection of strange magical instruments briefly caught his attention. From time to time they whirred or flashed multicolored lights, but otherwise remained silent. A book on a lectern in the corner was embossed with a geometric design of some sort that Edwin had always taken to be the Peverell family crest: a circle and a vertical line inscribed within a triangle.

He stretched his legs and sat back down. He hummed a little. He inspected his wand—he really ought to polish it before meeting again with Mr. Southill. He wiped his sweating hands on his breeches. His mouth, he noticed, had become quite dry.

At long last, the door at the back of the drawing room opened. In strode a balding wizard of impressive stature, who glared down at his grandson.

Edwin leaped to his feet.

"Have a seat, boy," the old man scowled. "I'm not the ruddy Minister for Magic."

"Yes, sir," Edwin whispered, sitting once more. The old man pulled up a chair for himself and arranged it as closely as he could to that of his grandson.

Edwin sat there, stunned, knee to knee with his grandfather, Berossus Peverell.

"Your mother tells me you're leaving Hogwarts."

Edwin swallowed. "A p-position has opened up at the Ministry, sir. Mr. Southill asked for me personally."

"Are you trying to justify it to me or to yourself, boy?" Berossus Peverell thundered.

"No one," Edwin said, at once defiant. "I'm simply telling you…sir."

Edwin's grandfather leaned back in his chair. Something—it might have been a grin, it might have been indigestion—passed briefly across his taut lips.

"I know Southill," he said at last. "He interned at the International Confederation of Wizards directly out of Hogwarts. Listen to him, boy. He's destined to go far in the Ministry—and he can take you with him."

"Yes, sir," Edwin muttered.

"It's important work, enforcing Statutory compliance. Of course, you weren't even born back in '92. The Ministry were up in arms for a month after they learned what happened in the Colonies." He grasped the arms of his chair. "Just last year the Ministry had to send a whole team of wizards to Hertfordshire to clean up after that Wenham girl. If our kind don't learn to police ourselves, boy, there's no telling what will happen next.

"A wizard's got to keep his head. There's very little room for error, especially with the Red Indians and other heathen wizards who haven't yet accepted the need for secrecy. And I'll tell you this: they've got magic you've never seen. Southill's legation won't be a walk in the park, boy. That I guarantee."

Edwin sighed. "If…if you don't think I'm ready…." He bit his lip. "If you don't think I'm smart enough or talented enough…."

To his astonishment, he felt his grandfather's hand on his. "I didn't say that, Edwin."

He looked his grandfather in the eye.

"Do you think I don't know about the way you stand up for your friends—especially the half-bloods and Muggle-borns? Or that I don't read every word your mother writes me about the sort of man you're turning out to be? Brave, honorable, independent, quick-witted. Do you think I am ignorant of the fact that you have placed first in your year in dueling for the past three years, or that you very nearly took top honors in Transfiguration last year?"

"Edwin, it is true that I wished you would have applied yourself more diligently to your schoolwork. But it is also true that there is more to life than books. You've got a real opportunity to do some good for the world—our world and even the Muggle world. And if anyone can walk into that unknown and come out the other side, it's you."

Edwin felt his lower lip begin to quiver.

"Your mother was my eldest daughter," the old man continued. "You remind me more of her every day. You've got the same fiery temper, the same unassailable sense of right and wrong…and the same uncanny ability to keep me up at night wondering what you're up to!"

Berossus Peverell retrieved his wand from the pocket of his robes and silently conjured a small leather satchel.

"You're my eldest grandchild—and my only grandson." He lifted the satchel and placed in Edwin's hands. "When your grandmother and I first married, I had hoped to pass this on to my son. Alas, I was blessed only with daughters. Though I would never have allowed you to have this at Hogwarts—and, if I may be frank, we both know it would have only got you in more trouble than you were already—it seems the time as come for you to have it."

Edwin loosened the buckle that held the satchel closed and pulled out a silvery expanse of cloth, so soft it was practically liquid. He gasped as it dawned on him what he was holding.

"Is this…an Invisibility Cloak?"

"The best ever made," Berossus Peverell said, swelling with pride. "Go ahead, my boy. Try it on." He scooted his chair back to give Edwin room to rise. With a smile dawning upon his face, Edwin pulled the cloak over his shoulders and stared down in awe at his suddenly disappeared body.

"My father gave it to me, and his father gave it to him. It has been in the Peverell family for centuries—of which family I am the last male heir."

"I-I don't know what to say, sir."

"Say you'll use it to stay safe on your journeys."

"Of course, sir."

"I have come to suspect that I have been wrong about you, Edwin. I thought I could push you to apply yourself. It never occurred to me I might be pushing too hard. Perhaps I was trying to relive my own past glories through you."

"I've always hoped to make you proud, sir—Grandpa."

"And so you have, Edwin. And so you have."

* * *

><p>• Basil most likely wields a small sword or court sword, a development halfway between the rapier and the foil, which was the standard dueling weapon from the mid-17th to the late 18th century. A small sword was generally 24–33 inches long.<p>

• Snowy owls are well suited to hunt whenever they please, and are regularly seen during daylight hours.

• The Salem Witch Trials took place in 1692. According to J. K. Rowling, this was also the year the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy was officially established, although it had first been signed in 1689. Jane Wenham was tried and convicted of witchcraft in 1712, but later pardoned by Queen Anne and set free. The last execution for witchcraft in the United Kingdom seems to have been that of Janet Horne, in Scotland in 1727.


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